


(un)dressing for dinner

by ljs



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-01
Updated: 2013-06-01
Packaged: 2017-12-13 16:37:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/826449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ljs/pseuds/ljs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, after bad days at work, they prefer to eat at home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(un)dressing for dinner

_outer layer_

When Anthea puts down her BlackBerry, the light from the table lamp hurts her eyes. Or maybe it's just that last text message from Thames House.

She looks up, and sees herself staring back. She makes herself widen her field of vision. She focuses on the gilded baroque frame of the mirror Mycroft brought from the Holmes country house, on the swirls and the negative space. The silk of the foyer's wallpaper catches the light, gleaming crimson in those gaps in the frame. 

She closes her eyes. Her fingers find her phone, nevertheless, feel the slick and the slight heat. She still sees blood.

The lift arrives – she hears the ascent, the arrival, the opening and closing of doors. She doesn't look.

“Hi, darling,” she says.

“Anthea.” The solid thump of his Smith and Sons umbrella in the stand, followed by his briefcase. The almost silent impact of his feet. And then good warmth at her back, long knowing fingers on her shoulders. 

That touch is enough to make her pull herself together. She opens her eyes, turns under his hands, leans against the table, smiles. But that smile fades as soon as she surveys his face. “Mycroft.” It is his name, it is not-quite-a-question, it is entirely sympathy.

Holmes that he is, he doesn't take to that particular emotion. His gaze flickers before he says, “I'm sorry I'm late, my dear.” The reason he is – indeed, the reason she only arrived five minutes ago – is unspoken, but it beats like a dirge in the gaps in his apology. “Did you... shall we change our dinner reservation?”

“No. Not exactly.” She slides her hands up his chest, tracing the lapels of his suit jacket. Summer-weight grey wool, finely spun, perfectly draped over waistcoat and Turnbull and Asser shirt in the blue of his eyes. She touches his tie, touches the scarlet in its weave. 

His hands catch hers, his fingers linking automatically. “Shall I, then, or--”

“I cancelled it. I'd prefer to eat at home. Surely Anni has left us something,” she says.

He bows his head and kisses her neck, there where she's at her most sensitive. He knows her hurt places, always. Then, still silent, he begins to unbutton her black jacket. She follows his action, her hands against his grey jacket, both of them caught in the mirror, both of them framed by swirls and crimson in the gaps.

 

 _tie_

In the kitchen they sit at the island, over the remains of a quite acceptable supper she foraged from the provisions their housekeeper left. His contribution was choosing the Bach for the sound system, opening a bottle of Chateau Petrus he had laid down twenty years ago (despite Anthea's raised eyebrow at choosing that particular wine on an ordinary Wednesday evening) and lighting the candles.

His contribution also is not talking about the loss of that MI5 agent in St Albans, he tells himself – and at the thought his fingers tighten on the stem of his wine-glass. He has seen horrors in his time, indeed has perpetrated one or two, and he shouldn't feel as unsteady as he has since he opened the file right before he left the office.

But that morning Anthea had talked about going to St Albans – not her op, but as a favour to a colleague who was dubious about the product. A minor problem in a Lambeth safehouse had kept her in London, however, and he'd known that even as he opened the file. It is thoroughly ridiculous, he thinks, to still feel the tremors.

He breathes through the constriction in his throat, he drinks, he makes himself savour. It's a fine vintage: it tastes of fruit and the sun and life, and the finish is complicated and exquisite, changing in his mouth from moment to moment. 

Next to him – as he sees in his peripheral vision – Anthea is also enjoying her wine. He puts out his free hand, which she takes easily, and they hold on to each other as they set down their glasses.

Without pause she turns to him. “May I?” she says.

He smiles, which is more difficult that he expected; he feels exposed somehow, as if internal tremors may change to something even more uncontrollable. But he'll keep up his end: “Which of your fetishes do you wish to indulge, my dear?” 

Her answering smile is complicated and exquisite – reproof, amusement, intent. “Oh, I wouldn't say it's a _fetish_ , darling.”

She ceremoniously wipes her hands on her napkin, then moves to stand between his legs. He opens for her, lets her come closer despite his reservations. The height of the chair means that he is eye to eye with her. He loses himself just for a moment in her gaze, in the warmth and reality of her, and then her hands are at his throat.

Ah. Of course. “Yes, my dear, you may.”

Her fingers slide into the knot of his tie. He doesn't believe in magic as such, but what Anthea does with a mere dive and twist is prestidigitation of the highest order; the knot comes undone, and with another swift movement from her, the tie slithers free. His top shirt button is undone before he can take a breath.

His sense of exposure deepens, and his hands go just a little too tight on her waist, slipping on the silk of her shirt. Impatiently he pulls, seeks, finds; her skin there is warm, giving – 

Her mouth opens on his neck, sucking gently. Then, in his ear, “Darling, you may, too.”

And she's on his lap, her skirt riding up on her thighs, and his tie slides down to make a curl of scarlet between them.

 

 _tangled, released_

“Mycroft,” she says as she comes, her bare feet digging into his back, her hands in his hair. 

He doesn't answer, but another thrust or two, the stillness, and the fall is good enough.

They lie there on the kitchen floor for a moment. She loves his weight on her, loves the heat and the sighs and the sense of being clothed by his body. Her hands rub up and down his spine, and her feet slide down his legs until they reach the tangle of his trousers at his knees. 

She laughs, and as she does the hardness of the floor against her back registers. It's entirely possible she's going to have bruises. Ah well, such is the price of uncovering him. Of loving him.

“Mmm, this can't be comfortable for you,” he murmurs in her ear, as if he's reading her thoughts.

“Just another minute,” she says, and holds him tightly, imprinting his breath and his heartbeat into her. Then she releases her grasp. “There.”

He pushes his torso away from hers – and hovers, inspecting her breasts. “I apologise, my dear. I think I might have... marked you.”

“You are so very insistent on apologising for things I don't find problematic,” she says. “What should I make of that?”

“Clever woman,” he says dryly, leans forward to kiss her forehead, and then sits up all the way. This isn't the first time they've forgot themselves on the floor; he manages to take off his shoes and socks and then his trousers and briefs with a minimum of cursing (his) and chuckles (hers). She pushed off his waistcoat and shirts early in the proceedings – only fair, when he disrobed her so efficiently – so he's naked when he stands.

Despite the years they've lived together, the sight gives her an odd, illicit thrill. Mycroft Holmes allows himself to be that free in her presence. 

Also, it's a rather nice view, watching him lean on the kitchen island and drink his wine. Except then the lights catch the dark red in the glass, and she thinks again of loss, and she wants to curl up on herself, hiding the bitterness inside.

“Up you come, my dear,” he says, and offers his hand. 

Such is the gift of loving him, she thinks. He is there to balance her.

And before they turn to their phones and showers and evening rituals, they stand, tangled together, in a pool of clothes threaded with scarlet, with crimson wine catching the light.


End file.
